yesterday I asked myself Why
today the question is a lot Bigger
deep in my inner ear
it vibrates
a scream in a lovely song
a headline on a web page
yesterday I asked myself Why
today the question is a lot Bigger
in the squint eyes of a scrawny man
in the scent on the air
a wizened old man totters by
a cough in a quite church
yesterday I asked myself Why
today the question is a lot Bigger
so I recite the serenity prayer
take a deep breath
sip water
push back the pain in my throat
yesterday I asked myself Why
today the question is a lot Bigger
my memories meander on a soothing violent current
jaws clench in determination
a quiet pledge
a loud thanks giving
yesterday I asked myself Why
today the question is a lot Bigger
tears in my rice
an instinctive flinch
come fill my nails with grit
let me hold on to the warmth of the dying sun
yesterday I asked myself Why
today the question is a lot Bigger
in a new borns cry
an empty chair at the table
in that feeling that wont end
In the discomfort of my questions
yesterday I asked myself Why
today the question is a lot Bigger
the face contorts in a cry
the familiar texture of a shirt
the blue of mouth wash
yellow marigolds on a grave
yesterday I asked myself Why
today the question is a lot Bigger
in the unspoken voice of a strong lady
first fruit of the mango tree
crumbling beams of the wooden room
empty bottles in a dusty cupboard
yesterday I asked myself Why
today the question is a lot Bigger
old pictures in a draw
a scapular and an old watch
come back, oh come back, come back, oh come back
what would I not give to have you back.
20th June 2008
Friday, July 18, 2008
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Scarlette Eden Keeling
On the bohemian beaches of Goa
There I die.
Scarred my spirit faltered
Like my feet on soft sand
My skin decorated with intricate patterns of yellow
As drugged intentions
Entered me
High on fantasy.
On the bohemian beaches of Goa
There I die.
The salt water floods my nostrils
Calloused hands bite my skin
Blue green red panic plea
While romance slept
Tucked under her down fluff
I became cold meat for breakfast.
On the bohemian beaches of Goa
There I die.
swaying palms, warm waters, blistering suns,
bronzed skins, hookas, trance, textures
Tattoos, morality, colour, corruption, ego.
On the gentle waves of the Arabian sea
Under the ethereal light of the moon
There I set sail for another world.
10th April 2008
There I die.
Scarred my spirit faltered
Like my feet on soft sand
My skin decorated with intricate patterns of yellow
As drugged intentions
Entered me
High on fantasy.
On the bohemian beaches of Goa
There I die.
The salt water floods my nostrils
Calloused hands bite my skin
Blue green red panic plea
While romance slept
Tucked under her down fluff
I became cold meat for breakfast.
On the bohemian beaches of Goa
There I die.
swaying palms, warm waters, blistering suns,
bronzed skins, hookas, trance, textures
Tattoos, morality, colour, corruption, ego.
On the gentle waves of the Arabian sea
Under the ethereal light of the moon
There I set sail for another world.
10th April 2008
Friday, February 22, 2008
Building a memorial for fallen heroes
Where women fall,
There the grass grows.
Greener for the fertility.
They fall
Acid burnt,
Charred,
Cut to pieces (sometimes cooked),
Beaten,
Bloody,
Diseased,
Violated,
Unloved,
Objectified,
Vilified,
Demonized,
Haunted,
Taunted,
Deluding,
Where women fall,
There the grass grows.
Greener for the fertility.
There the grass grows.
Greener for the fertility.
They fall
Acid burnt,
Charred,
Cut to pieces (sometimes cooked),
Beaten,
Bloody,
Diseased,
Violated,
Unloved,
Objectified,
Vilified,
Demonized,
Haunted,
Taunted,
Deluding,
Where women fall,
There the grass grows.
Greener for the fertility.
Disabled femininity
disfigured bodies
forsaken womanhood,
yet our wombs cry,
tears of blood,
our bellies yearns to swell,
our breasts crave to feed,
our stumpy arms long to caress,
the flesh of our flesh, blood of our blood,
but our femininity is lost among the dark sludge of your morality.
We long for love, to give it,
to feel it grow within,
our mauled bodies refuses to accept us, an afterthought,
so we shred the days and nights to seconds,
grope within the crevices,
and pray to be found,
all we come up with are spirogyra like desires,
leeches that suck the aspirations from our souls,
for our femininity is lost among the dark sludge of your morality.
I wrote this poem after a heard that a severely disabled girl had become pregnant, out of wedlock, and the ruckus this created within her family and an NGO on disability that interacted with her. The sexuality of women with disability is an unaddressed question. Most people believe that women with disability have no right to love or be loved. We fail to realize that a women with physical disabilities is just that, physically disabled, and it does not automatically imply a mental, emotional, spiritual or psychological disability. We, non disabled people do not loose an opportunity to sit in judgment of persons with disability and ram our opinions on them.
forsaken womanhood,
yet our wombs cry,
tears of blood,
our bellies yearns to swell,
our breasts crave to feed,
our stumpy arms long to caress,
the flesh of our flesh, blood of our blood,
but our femininity is lost among the dark sludge of your morality.
We long for love, to give it,
to feel it grow within,
our mauled bodies refuses to accept us, an afterthought,
so we shred the days and nights to seconds,
grope within the crevices,
and pray to be found,
all we come up with are spirogyra like desires,
leeches that suck the aspirations from our souls,
for our femininity is lost among the dark sludge of your morality.
I wrote this poem after a heard that a severely disabled girl had become pregnant, out of wedlock, and the ruckus this created within her family and an NGO on disability that interacted with her. The sexuality of women with disability is an unaddressed question. Most people believe that women with disability have no right to love or be loved. We fail to realize that a women with physical disabilities is just that, physically disabled, and it does not automatically imply a mental, emotional, spiritual or psychological disability. We, non disabled people do not loose an opportunity to sit in judgment of persons with disability and ram our opinions on them.
Untitled
I know not what made you,
when,
how.
All I know is I feel the sting,
here,
now.
3rd October 05
when,
how.
All I know is I feel the sting,
here,
now.
3rd October 05
Friday, December 21, 2007
Sounds of Silence
When the sounds of
the night
die out.
It is then that your
heart begins to speak,
the bitter sweet truth
of your reality
November 2007
the night
die out.
It is then that your
heart begins to speak,
the bitter sweet truth
of your reality
November 2007
Sounds of Silence
When the sounds of
the night
die out.
It is then that your
heart begins to speak,
the bitter sweet truth
of your reality
November 2007
the night
die out.
It is then that your
heart begins to speak,
the bitter sweet truth
of your reality
November 2007
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